The author was restlessly walking in circles, orbiting a suite of sofas and chairs, which made up the center of their suite's living room. Through the bedroom door, Eliza eyed her sleepily for a while, still stretching and rubbing her eyes. After all of last night's turmoil, the assistant had some much needed rest, to process all the new impressions. Imogene had retreated as well, to wherever she might spend the night, but her boss didn't seem to need sleep.
Cautiously and only dressed in a thin night gown, the translator lumbered over to her and then stopped in the door frame. "Good morning," she greeted nicely, but reticently, since she didn't want to disturb her too much.
Kathleen stopped and looked at her. "I don't think we will be able to find Martha, if that's even her real name," she immediately addressed the topic that obviously kept her up all night. "And there aren't many alternatives. The so-called 'traditional' methods of expulsion of course may only work in a limited fashion, if the spirit is responsive at all, and even then, if it belonged to the same circle of belief, and..."
"Don't you want to sleep a little?" Eliza interrupted her concerned. "Or maybe sit down and have a short break?"
"Hogwash," Kathleen replied brusquely. "There will be enough time to sleep when this affair is over, and I still do my best thinking on my feet."
No wonder she's thin like that, Eliza thought, but didn't say anything further. Their inquiry with the hotel bore no fruit, which had disappointed her more than her boss. She would've loved too much for it to have been her idea that led to the conclusion, but sadly, the trail of the president's mysterious visitor came to nothing. Even though the receptionists did see a young woman the night in question, they couldn't say anything about her, other than to give a rather vague description. Nobody knew what her name was or where she was from and nobody had seen her before or since.
And besides, the gentlemen at the reception kept pointing out, they had already told all of that to the Secret Service, who certainly had searched all of San Francisco -- no, all of California, if not even all of the United States -- for the woman. And if they couldn't find her, who could? "Anything new about Jerry?" Eliza asked, to get the topic into a different lane.
Kathleen sneered. "Oh don't get me started," she exclaimed. "Do you want to know who Jerry is? I found out about him, ironically from some letters good old Imogene had left me for perusal. Jerry is the president's penis! Can you imagine? Who gives names to his penis?" She gestated wildly and rolled her eyes. "And then Jerry! Really? His last name is Harding, and he can't think of anything better than Jerry?" The author let out a histrionic sigh.
"Well," Eliza said sheepishly and was already sorry for having approached that subject. "I don't think it's all that bad..."
"Not all bad?" Kathleen interrupted her agitated. "My dear, I'm not just repulsed, but also feel insulted in my literary intellect. Jerry Harding? Harding's Jerry? Not even maybe a 'rock'? Rock Harding! Rock-hard Thing! It's daft, but not even remotely as daft as Jerry! Heavens, I could find a dozen better nicknames on the fly."
Lack of sleep, stress and excitement seemed to have left their mark on her girlfriend, and Eliza began to be concerned for her health. To distract her, and maybe even find a solution, she brought the topic back to Martha. "So," she stated matter-of-factly. "Who might be a replacement for Martha?"
